


if you believe in telekinesis, please raise my hand

by hegoats



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Agents of SHIELD, F/M, Gen, like what inhumans are, my point is, pls watch aos, to get the references, what are watch dogs, what the atcu is, you do need a passing knowledge of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegoats/pseuds/hegoats
Summary: and if it's peter parker's hand, punch himself in the face.m.j. is an inhuman, racist mofos get their s**tholes filled, spider-man shows off a new, sassy headless look for winter, and here's your daily reminder to always take your fish oil pills, kiddos.





	if you believe in telekinesis, please raise my hand

Stop him if you've heard this one before: five robbers with advanced alien technology walk into a bank and hold two dozen people hostage. The punchline? His life. 

An errand that should've taken Peter two minutes to complete has now ballooned to a hostage situation. Honestly though this whole enterprise started on the wrong foot when he had to come inside the bank because the ATMs outside were out of service. But here's the kicker: his spider suit is in his backpack. Which he can't access because it would be a little weird to start stripping in the middle of the bank. 

Just as the young bank teller beside him begins to whimper, Peter makes a solemn vow: from now on, he's always wearing the suit. 24/7, 365. He'll just wear glasses and a fake mustache over the mask to disguise himself during school. (He's kidding but only half so.) 

Who's not kidding though are these robbers with their dangerous extraterrestrial weapons and aggressive shouting.  _Very_ aggressive shouting, he'd add. But that's not important. What is important is keeping an eye on these robbers and making sure this situation doesn't get any hairier. His gaze swiftly follows the movements of the robbers: two head to the vault in the back, partially obscured by a frosted glass divider; one sticks by the heavy metal front doors to watch for the police; one guards the hostages in the middle of the lobby; and the fifth runs dispatch between all four. A long red carpet connects the lobby to the offices and the vault. Each robber is equipped with a different weapon of varying size and, presumably, varying power. Peter isn't familiar with any weapon specifically but, if his prior experience is any indication, they're in serious shit if things go south. 

He knows he can't do anything. The fact is a bitter pill to swallow but reminding himself that there are other lives at stake here makes it go down easier. From his position, he catches a glimpse of the two robbers stuffing wads of cash into black duffel bags. An imaginary timer counts down in his head. Two minutes have passed since the robbery began. 

Best case scenario: the robbers leave without incident and he catches them later. Worst case: an incident happens and he doesn't catch them. Either way: fuck. 

The muffled whine of sirens fill the bank. Some sobs turn into sighs of relief, but it's too early to celebrate. The robber watching the door announces that he smells bacon. The hostage watcher curses under his breath, wondering how the cops knew the bank was being robbed and how they got here so fast. The robber jogs back to the vault and tells the two that they may have to go with "Plan B." From the way his voice trembles, Peter can gleam that it probably does not involve letting all the hostages go. Sweat pops on his forehead and his feet begins to do a nervous jig. His backpack suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The hostage watcher adjusts his hold on his gun and begins to nervously glance around. Behind him, prayers are murmured. 

He peeks over his shoulder to M. J. While the others are pale and shaking, she is the picture of total serenity and calmness. It's like she's any place but here. Which isn't unusual; she always gives off the vibe that she's in control and above it all. She looks at him. Her brown eyes are dark and heavy with knowledge, sparkling under the lights like moonlight reflecting off dark water. A smirk cuts into her cheeks. And then – 

The robber jogs from the vault. His foot catches on an upturned lip of the carpet. He trips. He's close enough that, as he falls, he pulls down the hostage watcher's pants. With his pants on the ground, the guy roars out a string of profanities at the other guy. Too bad he can't hear him. The fall knocked him out. Just then, something pops near the vault. Through the frosted glass, the vault door closes shut as an alarm blares and the guys inside shout. The guy keeping lookout turns his attention to the commotion behind him. 

The doors bust open, knocking the robber to the ground, and the cops swarm in. (They must've seen the chaos happening inside and decided to come in.) A sigh of relief blows through the bank and sobs turn to cries of joy. During the flurry of hugs and cheers as they're led from the bank, Peter loses sight of M. J. He catches a glimpse of her brown curls in the crowd but, before he can reach her, a police officer stops him for his statement. He tries to give a quick one, but the cop makes him start over and repeat himself several times. By the time the officer is satisfied and lets him go, M. J. is gone.

 

* * *

 

It's all he thinks of for the next week. He runs through the event a hundred of times, considers every possibility, and wracks his brain for any answer. But the conclusion remains the same. It's the disturbance in the force, the alcohol in the punch bowl, and the Baby Ruth in the pool that knocks him off-kilter and forces him to readjust his perception of her to fit this new set of data. He sees her now: the deliberate movements; the short, quick intakes of air whenever there's a crowd; the delayed reaction when an item drops near her. 

She catches him staring once during practice. Her voice is a growl as she demands to know why he's looking at her. "Is there something on my face? Are you trying to use your mind to blow up my head?" 

"No! No. I'm just um... thinking?" 

"Well think elsewhere, Parker. Or I'll blow up  _your_  head." 

He ducks his head, cheeks burning. Flash snickers and hoots and howlers that  _hey!_ Little Petey here has a crush on Michelle, ain't that cute? Just as he starts singing about Penis Parker and M. J. sittin' in a tree, the chair he's sittin' in collapses. That shuts him up for the rest of practice. 

After that, Peter pays special attention to not paying attention to M. J. Her knowing that he knows is the last thing he needs. But he suspects that she already knows that he knows. And he has a sinking suspicion that she knows that he knows that she knows that he knows. It's hard to know exactly though, especially since she never gives any indication that something's up. As ever, she remains her normal, unflappable self. It makes Peter uncertain in his findings. Like getting hit in the head and staying up till balls o'clock every night has finally caught up to him and he's hallucinating now. He considers following her lead and acting like nothing happened. But it's hard to know to act like nothing happened if nothing really did in fact happen and  _fuck why is this so difficult to figure out_. 

As usual, he's overthinking things. Meanwhile his instincts are telling him to go with what he knows and ruin everything. 

So, "PLAN RUIN EVERYTHING" aka "PETER MAKE BOOM BOOM" huh? Okay so like that'll involve him just blindly accusing her of being Inhuman and hoping that it does not blow up in his face (literally and figuratively). Because, let's be real, aide from the fact that she was there during the robbery, he's got squat. So what if she happened to be there? This is New York City. Weird Capital, USA. Strange things happen all the time. For fuck's sake, Peter runs around in spandex, calling himself Spider-Man, and he's not the weirdest dude in town. If that happenstance is his only sign that strange things are afoot with M. J. then he's going to need a sign for himself that reads, " _I'm a stupid baby_." 

After a week of going back and forth, he decides to just bite the bullet and talk to her. As a wise philosopher once said: "The right moment will never pick you up from a street corner off Hollywood Boulevard and  _Pretty Woman_ you. Most of the time, you just gotta hike up your thigh high boots and shake what your momma gave you." (Actually, that wise philosopher may have been Tony Stark. And maybe Mr. Stark should work on his metaphors before doling out advice to a very impressionable teenage boy.) 

Whatever. He's doing it anyways. (Talking to M. J., not the hooker thing.) 

He finds her tucked away in the furthermost back corner of the library near the Etruscan literature. He hopes that since they're surrounded by books she'll be less inclined to blow up his head (but then that brings up the more terrifying thought of his head imploding). Nearby, a girl giggles and someone softly shushes; a few rows away, paper ruffles amid a mad scribbling of pen against a notebook; the fluorescent lights overhead hum. 

Anxiety gnaws at his stomach as he approaches the table. He feels like that blueberry girl from that old  _Willy Wonka_  movie: rapidly expanding and ready to pop. His fingers curl around the back of the chair just as a cold sweat breaks on his forehead. Minutes tick by and it's becoming increasingly obvious that she isn't aware of him. He clears his throat, but her attention remains on the book. Looks like he'll have to start. He notices the bright orange cover of the book she's reading and decides to use that as the icebreaker. 

" _Pumpkin Eater_ , huh? Is that – is that about history's greatest cheaters?" M. J. responds with stony silence as he mumbles out a small layer of words, "Cos y'know... cheater, cheater. Pumpkin Eater." He knows it's not about cheaters. "Pumpkin Eater" is probably a metaphor for something. Every book she reads is a metaphor for something. 

The silence is unbearable so he stammers, "Have you uh... did you catch the game last night?" 

"What game?" 

"Um, Knicks?" 

"No game." 

"Right, right." He's so thrilled to finally get a response from her that he takes that as an invitation to sit down instead of the hint to get lost that it really was. "Did you do the chemistry homework?" 

"You're not copying my homework." 

" _Whaaaaaaaaat_." He guffaws at the mere absurdity of the idea. Peter Parker. Not doing his homework.  _Ha_. "Nah, I'm not asking to copy. I did it all myself actually. Like number five? Whew. What a toughie that was. It took –" 

"Cut the crap. What do you want?" 

"Okay so like. Do you remember that time that um that George Smith guy popped a wheelie on his motorbike in the school parking lot? But he wasn't wearing a helmet so he like almost busted his head open and Morita was buggin' so much that he almost busted  _his_ head open and –" 

" _Peter_." 

His mouth slams shut and he stops to corral his thoughts. He keeps his eyes trained on M. J., silhouetted against the windows. Behind her, the bright afternoon sun pours into the hallway. The loud, mechanical ticking of the clock above them rings in his ears. He lets out a steadying breath and tries for a cool tone in his words. Luckily, she's not looking at him which makes it easier. "The robbery. At the bank? I – I know." 

Quietly, M. J. closes her book, folds her hands together, and leans forward. Her brown eyes bore into his, unblinking before narrowing sharply behind her bangs. The silence is the silence of someone reaching for the gun; the split second between sensing the danger and reacting to the danger. His instinct is to lean back, look away, just get away from her intense stare. But he's too frozen to even blink so he holds her gaze. It's like being seen through a sniper's scope or having a spotlight shone on him. It's the sudden and crippling awareness of being too conscious of his body and of his thoughts. 

"What's good?" M. J.'s lips curl into a sneer. " _Spidey_." 

He blinks. "You know." 

"No shit. You have the subtlety and nuance of an Iron Man mariachi band." Her voice is sharp with sarcasm, accented with an eye-roll and a soft huff of displeasure. 

"Okay, first off, Iron Man mariachi band? Noice. Second, were you ever gonna let me know? It would've made skipping practice a whole lot easier." 

"Don't skip practice. Or I'll Luke Skywalker the Lego Death Star." 

His lips slide into a smile as he leans forward, propping his elbow on the table. "Well gosh. You're not exactly making it hard not to skip." 

Her scowl deepens. "Fine. I'll blow up your head." 

"I know that's a threat but  _man_. What a way to go." All the juice's been let out and he's no longer a human blueberry. He breathes easily. 

She rolls her eyes again. "Whatever. Yeah so, I'm Inhuman and you're Spider-Man. Whoop dee freakin' doo", she drawls as she returns to her book. 

Confirmation of what Peter suspected for the past week should satisfy him (and it does), but more questions arise. Unfortunately, she's kind of indicated that the conversation is over. But Peter can't help himself. Curiosity killed the cat but also the spider apparently. 

"When did it happen?" He blurts out. He regrets asking as soon as it's out. The question is too personal. He knows he's overstepped the boundaries and upset the delicate system of pulleys and levers they've established in the month since homecoming. He backpedals and begins to apologize for being nosy when she cuts him off. 

"Spring of eighth grade." 

Peter watches as she draws in a breath and shifts in her chair. Her gaze sweeps from her book to the earbuds hanging from his plaid shirt collar. His eyes carefully trace the downward drooping of her mouth. 

Most of what M. J. says sounds carefully rehearsed. As if she has recounted and dissected the events often and thoroughly enough that relating has become as simple and mundane as reading the ingredients off a bag of chips. During parts of the account however, her poised façade cracks and she has to stop to consider, reiterate, and clarify before continuing in a hushed and hesitant tone. It's as if she didn't expect to divulge in great detail the entire experience and yet every detail is being yanked right out. He can discern the level of intimacy of the revealed secret by how her eyes widen. And always,  _always_ an undercurrent of fear courses through her words even as she deliberately avoids using that word or connotation. 

She's trapped in that cocoon for hours, she says. Maybe? It's hard to know how much time passed before the rocky black substance chipped away and she was left with a pulsating headache. There she stops to amend that she later learned that it wasn't just her shaking; the whole block shook. She breezes through the first few months, glossing over how she learned to control her powers with a massive understatement of becoming a wizard with superglue and duct tape. If she hadn't repeated several times her constant vigilance of the ATCU, the Watch Dogs, and S. H. I. E. L. D., Peter could mistake her as flippant. 

And he gets it. His heart aches from distress and the passionate indignation of their shared trauma. She doesn't have to say much for him to understand. He knows. 

She finishes with a yawn just as the bell rings. Students flood the hallway. He's going to be late for Spanish if he doesn't leave now. Class is on the other side of the school and that crowd is going to take some navigating to get through. He can't afford to be late. He's still on thin ice. He can't be late. 

"We should team-up." 

The suddenness and strangeness of his comment pulls her gaze to him. "What?" 

"Team-up. Like Batman and Superman. Their team-ups are  _always_ great. Well, except for that one time. But ours won't end like that. Knock on wood." Peter reaches across the space between them and gently taps against the wooden table. "We can call ourselves 'Pinky and the Brain'." 

Her eyebrow quicks upward. "You are aware that, in that context, you'd be Pinky." 

"Well  _duh_ , of course. I'm not the cool one who can move stuff with her mind. I just get hit in the head a lot." 

An unreadable expression flickers across her face. Peter can pick out and decipher a few looks: confusion, hesitancy, satisfaction, mild amusement. But there's something else. An unknown and indescribable look smolders in her dark eyes and burns to his brain. In the silence, their delicate system of pulleys and levers reconfigure. 

Her fingers pick at the fraying edge of her book. "Um. Thanks. But I uh – I'm gonna pass. I'm not interested in being a superhero." 

"What, why not? Being a superhero is like – the greatest thing ever." 

Her lips twitch. "Says the guy who gets hit in the head a lot." 

If he had pearls, he'd be clutching them to his chest right now. "Ouch. That hurt more than any baseball bat to the head ever could." 

She frowns. "You mean, what you  _imagine_ a baseball bat to the head feels like? Right?" 

"Oh yeah. Yeah, of course."

M. J. stares at him, still frowning. She opens her mouth as if to say something but stops. The air between them grows heavy. "Well. Bye."

With no movement from him, his chair slides back.  _Woah_. He's gonna have to get used to that. He stands to walk away but something still nags in his mind. If they are to proceed forward, things need to be clarified and amended first. He turns back and asks, "We good?" 

Her cheek rests on her hand as her darting eyes remain on her book. She responds with a muffled "We good." 

 

* * *

 

Weeks pass and things settle. He's finally getting a handle on this double life routine. Ned makes excuses for him whenever he has to run off and prattles about nothing whenever he returns. M. J. helps him with his schoolwork and kicks his chair whenever he dozes off in class. And Aunt May, well – it's an adjustment. That's all he can say. 

She makes him promise that he'll stick to bicycle thieves, vandals, and pickpocketers, but nothing more. "Let the Avengers handle 'em. Or that red yahoo with the sticks. He doesn't look like he has a family.  _Or_ that hoody guy. You know. That guy wrote a song about him.  _Something_ _Something_ _Man_." 

Peter agrees because it's really the only way she'll let him leave the apartment. But they both know that Peter will stand up and fight anything. He keeps to the promise though, not that he has much choice in the matter. Bicycle theft, vandalism, and pickpocketing seem to really be the only crimes being committed lately. Boo. 

People still ignore him, but they don't seem to roll their eyes too much anymore at the sight of him swinging around Queens. For New Yorkers, that's like the highest form of respect. After he rescues six people from a burning retirement home in mid-November, that old grump Jameson starts blasting him on the front page of the Daily Bugle almost every day. Peter wears that as a badge of honor and spirals into fits of laughter whenever he parrots Jameson's blustering shout and pounds his fist on the desk. 

He tells M. J. this could be her life if she wanted but she always declines by way of sarcasm. But he still always makes it a point to ask if she wants to join him on patrol. He wants her to see him in action and be impressed but patrols can also be lonely and boring sometimes. 

Today's sharp remark is: "If I want to listen to lameass jokes while freezing my ass off, I'll stand in front of my freezer and watch a Kevin Hart special." (He doesn't take that as an insult because Kevin Hart is hilarious and sells out stadiums and if she says their jokes are alike then maybe he should start charging for them.) 

Joining him on patrol is an offer that Ned's never been conferred and he bristles when he hears Peter ask her for the thousandth time. Halfway down the table and above a book, M. J. furtively shoots a pointed look at Peter. With a sigh, he squeezes Ned's shoulder in an attempt to stroke his feathers back in place. "But you're The Guy In The Chair, Ned. That's like... super important. And awesome. While I'm out there, you're telling me where to go, what to do, and who to stop. You're the brains, I'm the brawn. You're Oracle. You're Felicity Smoak. You're The Guy In The Chair!" 

Ned's so pink from praise that he doesn't realize that M. J. knows about Spider-Man until an hour later in English when he exclaims "Oh shit" and falls out of his chair. Their classmates' barely interested eyes follow him as he grasps Peter's arm and whispers like air being let out of a tire, " _Duuuuuuude_ _._ " From across the room, Flash snickers and loudly asks what kind of nerd drugs he's on. Mrs. Potter's a sweet old soul though and she interprets Ned's outburst as outrage over Sydney Carton's tragic but heroic death. She admonishes Flash for his "insensitivity" and always smiles at Ned from then on. 

After that, Ned and Peter start nudging aside M. J.'s books to sit next to her, roping her into their circular and mindless conversations, and inviting her to their weekly hang-outs. The Dynamic Duo has added a member so Ned proposes that they rename themselves, "The Spider-Man Trio." She declares it the dumbest fucking thing she's ever heard. 

"Yeah, well." Ned licks his lips and appears to be in deep search for the perfect snappy comeback. "Bet you won't think that when the matching decoder rings come in." Ned's got no mean bones in his body. 

The confused look that crosses her face jolts a loud laugh from Peter. That earns him a deeper confused look and a reprimand from the librarian. (She may still think the name's dumb but even she can't completely hide her surprised pleasure when Ned hands her the decoder ring a week later.) 

The first snow falls into a bigger and more complete world. On Thanksgiving, a guy dressed as a turkey plays tug o' war with a woman and her purse at St. John's. Peter tells him that he's "gobbling up the wrong tree." The turkey pulls out a gun. He makes a joke about stuffing before webbing him to a lamp post. 

Later, after he recounts the story to M. J. over the phone, she comments pithily, "That jive turkey was up to some fowl behavior." 

He wishes she could've been there. And not just for that joke. Theirs is a kinship Peter never knew he needed. Knowing someone who has an idea of what he went through (and still goes through) assuages him. It bonds her to him in a small, unbreakable way. 

He swings his feet against the fire escape he's perched on. A cool breeze blows in from the east. "I'm kind of disappointed it wasn't a real turkey. I feel like I won't be a proper superhero until I fight a human-animal hybrid. Or a hyperintelligent animal bent on world domination." 

"Stopping your girlfriend's dad from hijacking weapons isn't enough?" 

He knows she said that as a joke, but the guilt descends upon him anyways. "Liz wasn't my girlfriend. Ditching her thirty minutes into our first date..." He sighs, suddenly exhausted, but he tries to reinject a tone of levity. "That's only worth twenty-five points. I gotta get a hundred points and pay the forty-dollar fee before I'm a Proper Superhero." 

It's so quiet on the other end that he thinks she's hung up. "Well", she says, voice soft, "hopefully you get your wish soon and some kind of animal punches you in the face." 

He stares distantly at the setting sun. "I can only hope." 

Peter goes to bed that night with a torrid of feelings tumbling around his head like shoes in a dryer. In the dark stillness of his room, he repeats to himself, echoing his previous tone and sentiment: "She wasn't my girlfriend."

 

* * *

 

Here's something: a memory from kindergarten. It's a birthday party of a chum whose name Peter's forgotten. If pressed, he's not sure he could even pick him from a picture. He remembers the chum's mom very clearly though. He remembers that a pair of cherub angels hung from a silver chain around her neck; that her wide smile always shone brightly; and how her curly hair (so golden it was almost yellow) bounced as she waved goodbye when the kindergarten class departed on their first field trip. 

Anyways, the birthday party. 

The chum had a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle themed party. There was a bouncy house, foam swords, tons of pizza, and a massive cake with all four turtles  _and_ Splinter  _and_ April O'Neil  _and_ Casey Jones. Needless to say, Peter was having a great time. 

In his exuberance, he knocked down a pitcher of red Kool-Aid onto the white carpet. 

" _Brand new_ white carpet", his chum's mom hissed as she grabbed him by the sleeve. The cherub angels who always smiled so serenely from her neck now glowered at him and her golden curls transformed into venomous snakes. Her face was pale white and splotchy red with anger as she scrubbed the carpet with hard strokes. Standing there with a roll of paper towels in his arms while his friends played just outside, hot tears of shame prickled at Peter's eyes. 

He didn't stay at the party much longer after that. At home, he hid in the small crawlspace in his closet. (If he closes his eyes, he can still trace the edge of the room with his finger and envelope himself in the comforting darkness.) It was only his mother's soft reassurances that coaxed him from his hidey-hole and further reassurances that coaxed the events from him. (He doesn't know or remember what happened afterwards. All he knows is that he never saw the chum or the mom again.) 

Peter brings this up only to remind himself what true fear is. Pissing off your friend's mom is real danger. This is nothing. This is a normal Tuesday. Beefy, stern men with guns strapped to their chests and intentions as dangerous and lethal as the explosives attached to their belts is standard fare. Call him when the universe is ending and  _then_ he'll worry. That's something. This is nothing. This is... 

A trap. 

As the fog of unconsciousness lifts, he's first aware of the pain in the back of his head. His eyes open only for a second before he realizes that  _oh_ that's a bad idea and he screws them shut. The fluorescent lights are like needles to his brain, intensifying a burgeoning headache. Slowly, he lets out all the air from his body then sucks in a lungful. Remaining calm is absolutely imperative in this situation. As is being smart. 

He breathes. Listens. Focuses. The cold air bites at his nose. He catches the sound of light footsteps, soft mutters, the faint rattling of metal, and... seagulls? He must be near the docks. He moves his fingers to regain from some feeling from the bitter cold and the tight handcuffs. It'd be a piece of cake to break the bonds apart and get through the door. Really, getting free isn't the issue, but the two dozen heavily armed guys swarming the building are. If Peter had his suit and his webshooters he could take out  _maybe_ half of them. And that's a big maybe. But he can't risk revealing (or confirming) his alter ego on the slim chance of escape. He'd just be removing his arm from the bear trap only to stick his head in instead. 

The door creaks open and Peter opens his eyes. In walks a tall guy with a blond ponytail dressed in black military gear with straps across his chest and a pistol at his waist. He has the stride of a soldier and a stern, mean look rests on his face. From his imposing presence, Peter guesses that he must be the leader. As soon as the guy is close enough, Peter puffs out his chest, deepening his voice to evoke the authority necessary to free himself. Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), it fails. His captor grins in response and, he's gotta say, the yellow teeth pairs nicely with the five-day stubble and the faint musk of B. O. he's sporting. Along with being anti-superhuman, Watch Dogs must also be anti-hygiene. 

He worried that the reason for his kidnapping had something to do with Spider-Man or Mr. Stark. As if they had connected the dots and figured out his secret identity. That doesn't seem to be the case. In his rough English accent, the guy only ever talks about his hatred of Inhumans. There's no mention of Mr. Stark or Captain America or really any non-Inhuman superhuman. That puts him at ease a little which is probably a horrible thing to feel considering that this guy seems pretty chill with killing Inhumans. But at least he can take comfort in the fact that even though he's probably gonna die in this abandoned warehouse, his secret is safe. 

The reason for his kidnapping soon becomes apparent after a very long, winding, and staunched meander through two hundred years of eugenics, elitism, and Social Darwinism. The guy goes the very long way around just to say that Inhumans are humanity's greatest threat and M. J.'s to blame for Peter's current predicament. 

Midway through, his brain spits out a random and unhelpful piece of information. It's something Peter hadn't thought of or something he hadn't even noticed until now as this guy really begins to wallow in rancor. It's kind of a sudden and abrupt thing like a newscaster being handed a bulletin during a live broadcast. Breaking news: today is the three-year anniversary of Ultron's failed attack in Sokovia. He idly wonders if the timing of this kidnapping was on purpose or just a coincidence. 

His speech is interrupted by a sudden commotion outside. Gunshots. Shouts. Bangs. Crashes. A pause. 

The leader uncuffs Peter and hoists him up by his shirt collar. His bulletproof vest presses uncomfortably at his back as he pulls him close against his chest with an arm around his neck. He takes a pistol from his holster and rests it on Peter's right shoulder. His shoulder dips from the unexpected weight. 

An image forms in his mind of Aunt May. Aunt May coming home from work and calling out that she's home. Then repeating herself when there's no response as she wanders around the apartment, looking for him. He hopes she doesn't go in his room. There's an entire ecosystem growing in his pile of dirty laundry. He really should've done his laundry. And taken out the trash like Aunt May asked him to before he left for school. A noise interrupts his thoughts; a quick, dull thump, pounding with the steady intensity of a bass drum. God, what's going on out there that's making that kind of noise? If it keeps going, he's bound to shatter to pieces. (It's the beating of his heart.) 

The door flies off its hinges, sailing over their heads, and lands with a clatter a few feet behind them. With the coolness and precision of a mechanical being, M. J. steps in. Her bangs flutter around the hard, sharp angles of her face. Tugging against the guy's iron grip, Peter strains to look behind her, hoping and almost expecting to see someone else. A cold realization stabs him in the gut. She's alone. He tries to catch her gaze but her steely eyes are locked on the Watch Dog leader. 

The guy lifts the gun to Peter's head. "Well, well. If it ain't Michelle Jones. I've been waitin' for you. I'm –" 

Peter and M. J. share a collective groan. Oh god if this guy goes on another spiel he's going to cry (but, as they say, there's no use crying over spieled milk). "Skip to the end", M. J. sighs. 

"You're fuckin' Inhuman", he snarls peremptorily. 

She rolls her eyes. "Fucking  _duh_." As usual, her tone is dry and her countenance portrays neither her feelings nor indication of her intentions. Peter finds that oddly comforting yet oddly unsettling. "You're really going to hurt him? That doesn't seem very 'pro-human' of you." 

"See, that's where you're wrong. He knew what you were. And he did  _nothing_. Far as I'm concerned, he's just as bad." He adjusts the gun against Peter's head, pressing the barrel to his temple. His heart leaps up his throat. "He's a traitor. And I'm gonna kill 'im." He cocks the gun. His head pounds. 

"Okay." 

Peter's heart drops to his feet. The gun slacks. They both say blankly, "What?" 

"Go ahead", she instructs with a tilt of her head. "Kill him." 

"M. J.", Peter yelps. 

"Peter Parker peeps a pineapple pizza and peepers less prospect." 

"Uh." The leader hesitates, sharp green eyes creasing with confusion. His hold loosens against his neck. 

"When he trips – I swear to God I'm not kiddin' – he's lands on the ceiling and –" She finally looks at Peter. "Knock his ass out." 

On cue, Peter leaps high into the air, slamming the guy against the ceiling. When they land, Peter shakes the guy off him. He slumps to the ground. Cheeks red and heart racing with adrenaline, Peter turns to M. J. Her hands cover her face. She's shaking and rocking back and forth on her heels. "M. J.?" 

She cuts him off with a hand. "One sec." Her voice is tight, strangled. 

The building shudders and groans. Dust disturbed and dislodged by the intense tremors waft in the air. Peter glances around, uneasy. His mind races with possibilities of what may happen if M. J. doesn't get control of herself. He can already feel the concrete falling on him, crushing him against the ground, squeezing the air from him, choking sobs stuck in his throat, his lungs on fire... 

The sharp dig of his fingernails into his palms jerk him back to reality. Now is not the time nor the place for another panic attack, he reminds himself. Instead, he turns his attention to considering if and when he should evacuate. Just as he's finishing calculating how many people he could pull out before the building completely collapsed, M. J. uncovers her face. Her puffy red eyes are a stark contrast to the sickly paleness of her skin. A light sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. He briefly wonders how close she was to losing control but doesn't entertain that thought for long. 

Peter holds out a hand and gently asks, "We good?" 

She breathes deeply in through her nose and out her mouth. Her body sags. "We good", she suspires. Then as if she just remembered the situation, she hesitates, forehead crinkling, and glances at him through half-lidden eyes. "We... good?" 

He nods and offers a reassuring half-smile. "We good." M. J. looks away and her face hardens, devoid of any emotions that the sculptor didn't chisel. In that moment, Peter realizes that he was never afraid of what may have happened to himself if she lost control; he was afraid for her. She punches him lightly on the shoulder and mutters flat, humorless words, "Let's go. Before your aunt shows up with that d-bag Stark."

With a slight flick of her wrist, a section of the wall shatters open. They step out to the harsh winter wind that whips at his cheeks. He's dizzy with joy at the sight of the city skyline across the bay: hazy but imposing in the fading afternoon light. Wordlessly, they walk along the docks by the mist of crashing waves and the soft cawing of seagulls. The sky is painted white. 


End file.
